❝ I’m packed with broken glass and memories and it all hurts. ❞
Henry Rollins, from Solipsist
❝ What if I told you
each time you whispered
my name it felt like a door
I could place a hand against,
feel how warm it was, as if
the world on the other side,
yours, was the one on fire? ❞
Jon Pineda, Coma 
❝ The world was collapsing, and the only thing that really mattered to me was that she was alive. ❞
Rick RiordanThe Last Olympian
Source: feellng Via: writingwillows
❝ Yours
(now I’m even losing my name — it was getting shorter and shorter all the time and is now: Yours) ❞
Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena
❝ I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.
The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it’s late. And the truth is laborious. ❞
Czeslaw Milosz, from Account
❝ Everything you do makes my body scream with loneliness. ❞
Henry Rollins, from Solipsist
❝ You are the untold story. You are the impassioned truth wanting to scream its existence, to be forever trapped by a strong hand clapped firmly over the mouth of my soul. ❞
Henry Rollins, from Solipsist
Source: melisica Via: contramonte
❝ Wishing I were bigger than these moments,smothered in hands, passing through my old bodies,shedding a luscious fur that drips from my shoulders like a whore in a girlie magazine, wishing I were greater than desire, so over its poesy whatever, wishing you hadn’t left me in June, wishing you were here, kissing me goodbye in the porch light. It’s a sweet montage, we’re laughing ugly and smiling at each other, the night expanding like a lung. So we drive with all the windows down, grinning into the blue, legs crossed, not both of them mine, the car sliding down the road like a streaming blotch on a reel of film. Lying on Sol’s couch, soft and molted, palming my phone, your phantom weight on my stomach, trying to send this, hoping at the very least to startle you into love, not love with me, but love as a verb,hoping you’ll see the bullshit in that sentence, regretting this already. ❞
❝ Imagine a room,
a sudden glow. Here is my hand, my heart,
my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated
cities at the center of me, and here is the center
of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we
can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.
I just don’t want to die anymore. ❞
Richard Siken, from Saying Your Names
❝ I can even say it,
though only once and it won’t
last: I want this.
I want this. ❞
Margaret Atwood, “There is only one of everything,” from Circe/Mud Poems
❝ We loved like we invented it. ❞
Cristin O’Keefe AptowiczBowery Women: Poems
Source: poetrist Via: alonesomes
❝ Though battle keeps us, we die a little
each day. I’ve lost the word for prayer.
My love, take these walls, these wars.
Dull my blades. I am tired of the hunt.
I’ve laid my only words at your feet. Open for me. ❞
(n.b.)